


A Christmas Soldier

by Evenlodes_Friend



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aristocracy, Christmas, Christmas Party, First Kiss, First Time, Ghosts of christmases past, Hogarth - Freeform, M/M, Medals, Not series 3 compliant, PTSD, Presents, Sherlock and Derek play the piano, Sherlock's uniform kink, antiques, cocktails, john in uniform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-03-02 21:06:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 15,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2826113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evenlodes_Friend/pseuds/Evenlodes_Friend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is unexpectedly invited to share Christmas with Sherlock’s family.  But the seasonal celebrations bring back difficult memories for them both.  This is my attempt to understand something of the damage that binds these two men together, so angst, and hurt/comfort, but with a fluffy happy ending.  </p><p>Readers have asked me to transfer this story across to the easier interface of AO3, and I thought this would be the time to do it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Invitation

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: later episodes will include details discussion of extreme violence, psychological trauma and homosexual sex, as well as reference to the deaths of family members. Characters may not necessarily be portrayed as ‘whiter than white’ heroes. Don’t like, don’t read - go get some Disney instead
> 
> Merry Christmas everyone!

            It was mid November when the letter came, a thick envelope of hand pressed, expensive cotton rag paper addressed to Sherlock in a large, loopy hand.

            ‘Something for you,’ John said, absently sorting through the bills and junk mail. Sherlock was absorbed in the papers.

            ‘Can’t you open it?’ He waived his arm languidly.

            ‘Looks personal,’ John said, and put it in the outstretched hand.

            ‘Oh, God,’ Sherlock groaned.

            ‘What? You haven’t even opened it!’

            ‘That’s because I know what it is,’ Sherlock snapped. Nevertheless he slid his long index finger under the flap and prized it open, took out two sheets of similarly expensive paper covered in large copperplate.

            ‘What is it?’ John couldn’t help being curious. Sherlock never got mail, at least not the hand written kind.

            ‘It’s the Christmas letter from Mummy,’ Sherlock sighed, running his eyes over the sheets. ‘Bad luck, you’re invited too this year.’

            ‘Your mother wants me to come for Christmas?’

            ‘Blame Mycroft. He must have told her about you, I never did. Well, you don’t have to come if you don’t want to. I’m sure your family-‘

            ‘My family don’t do Christmas,’ John said firmly.

            ‘Unfortunately mine do, and on a grand scale. I try to get out of it as much as I can, but I haven’t gone for the last two years and she’s playing the ‘I’m not getting any younger, dear’ routine. Its emotional blackmail.’

            ‘That must be where you get it from,’ John smirked.

 

* * *

 

 

            Nothing else was said, and John had begun to wonder whether Sherlock had forgotten the arrangement until a week before Christmas, when he came home from the shops and found the detective rifling through his wardrobe.

            ‘What the hell are you doing, Sherlock?’

            ‘You don’t have an evening suit,’ Sherlock told him.

            ‘I’m quite aware of that!’

            Oblivious, Sherlock was up to his elbows in John’s shirts. ‘Oh, what’s this?’ He pulled out a suit carrier. John snatched it out of his hands before he could open it.

            ‘It’s my dress uniform, if you must know. What the hell are you doing?’

            ‘You’ll need a dress suit for the cocktail party on Christmas Eve,’ Sherlock said, plucking curiously at the nylon bag. ‘You could wear that, though, couldn’t you?’

            ‘Cocktails?’

            ‘Mummy gives a big dinner on Christmas eve. Black tie. Cocktails at six, and then a grand dinner at eight.’ He had the decency to look embarrassed.

            ‘It’ll need cleaning,’ John muttered.

            Sherlock brushed the dust off his hands. ‘Take mine in when you go, would you?’

            He left John standing in the middle of the mess of pulled out shirts and cast aside trousers, clutching the suit carrier in a daze.

            ‘Cocktails?’

 

* * *

 

 

            Mycroft’s limousine oiled up to the curb as John was walking back from the dry cleaners the next morning. The door swung open. John stood there for a moment, then Mycroft’s weasel face peered out.

            ‘It’s cold, John,’ he said, tartly. ‘Do get in.’

            ‘You could just ring me, you know,’ John told him, pulling the door shut. ‘That’s what other people do.’

            Mycroft ignored him. ‘Christmas,’ he said.

            ‘What about it?’

            ‘I doubt Sherlock has given you any useful details?’

            ‘You’d be right there. Except the black tie requirement.’

            ‘Oh, yes. Well, I’m sure your mess dress will go down very well. Mummy does like a soldier.’

            John wondered if Mycroft could divine the double meaning of the expression any more than Sherlock would.

            ‘I will collect you at 2pm on Christmas Eve, and we will drive up to Sandon, to arrive about 3.30pm in time for afternoon tea. That should give you plenty of time to get acclimatised. Cocktails will be at 6, dinner at 8. Christmas day is far less formal, but I think smart trousers and a sports jacket would be appropriate. Do you play billiards?’

            ‘Pool,’ John shrugged. The elder Holmes wrinkled his nose.

            ‘Well, I’m sure you’ll pick it up,’ he sighed. ‘It helps to keep Sherlock occupied so that he isn’t baiting anybody. It does so upset Mummy, but he can’t seem to help himself. Anyway, we usually decamp after lunch on Boxing Day, at which point my car will bring you home. I have a few business matters on the estate to clear up so I shall stay another night. Will that suit?’

            John wondered if he had any choice, so he just nodded.

            ‘I shall look to you to keep Sherlock on the straight and narrow,’ Mycroft said sternly.

            ‘I don’t imagine anything I say would affect Sherlock’s behaviour,’ John said.

            ‘Oh, you would be surprised. Any other questions?’

            John thought about it. ‘Should I buy your mother a present? And if so, what?’

            Mycroft actually looked impressed. ‘She likes puzzles. Jigsaw puzzles. The more fiendish, the better.’

            ‘Now I know where they get it from,’ John grumbled as he got out of the car.

 

 

* * *

 

 

            The atmosphere in the car had been frosty to say the least all the way from London. This was not helped by the M40 being thick with holiday traffic. They came off the motorway at Banbury and struck out towards the Warwickshire border. The ghostly Cotswold stone of the houses loomed out of the winter night. John took comfort from staring at what he could make out of the passing landscape while the brothers fumed silently at one another. The driver turned into increasingly narrow lanes until at last he pulled in at a huge gateway and rolled down his window to growl into the intercom. The gates swung open, and the car glided through, and into a tree-lined avenue. John leant up to the window, trying not to let his breath smoke the chilly glass.

He’d had no idea it would be like this. Of course, he realised Sherlock’s family were wealthy, but it had never occurred to him just how wealthy, or where their money came from. Now, as the Georgian facade of Sandon Hall loomed into view, its tall windows glittering with a welcoming glow, he tried hard not to gasp. The Holmes boys, it seemed, came from old money. Seriously old.

            It was sleeting. When the car slid up to the front door, a black clad figure emerged from the house holding out a huge umbrella for the comfort of the travellers. Mycroft got out first.

            ‘Good evening, sir,’ the butler said. Mycroft nodded and stalked into the house, leaving the butler standing over the open car door.

            Sherlock climbed out. ‘Evening, Fingers,’ he said cheerfully to the man, whose gnarled face lit up.

            ‘Good evening, Mr Sherlock. Good to see you again. How long’s it been?’

            Sherlock patted him on the shoulder as John got out. ‘Two years,’ he said. ‘How’s the wife?’

            ‘Moved to Whitemoor Open Prison now, sir,’ the butler grinned. ‘The word is that the parole board is likely to look very kindly on her next time around.’

            ‘Glad to hear it, Fingers, glad to hear it.’

            Fingers the butler escorted them under the umbrella into the grand entrance hall and then went back outside to help the driver with the bags.

            ‘One of your little projects?’ John whispered to Sherlock.

            ‘Fifteen for armed robbery with intent, and a long and illustrious history of burglary to boot,’ Sherlock replied. ‘If anyone can keep Mummy safe in this old pile, it’s Fingers.’

 

* * *

 

 

            The entrance hall was a sea of glittering lights, reflecting off the polished marble floor from the immense Christmas tree that towered up through the sweeping staircase towards a glass cupola two storeys up. A woman came sailing down the stairs, her long fingers skimming the delicate mahogany balustrade. She looked for all the world as if she had stepped out of a 1950s fashion shoot, except for the fact that her bobbed hair was ice white. She wore a heather coloured twin set and matching tweed skirt. Even though she was probably in her mid seventies, John thought she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

            ‘Mycroft! Darling!’ she cried, embracing the older brother.

            ‘Mummy!’ John was shocked at the expression of adoration in the spymaster’s eyes, which quickly turned to irritation when she turned to Sherlock to hug him too.

            ‘Mummy,’ the younger son said obediently.

            And then she turned to John and fixed him with her jaw-droppingly fabulous eyes. ‘And you must be John?’

            He tried to pull himself together and held out his hand for her to shake. ‘Mrs Holmes, thank you for having me.’

            She brushed his hand aside and gave him an effusive hug. ‘Oh, don’t be silly, dear, you must call me Sibyl!’ Then she turned and slipped her arm through his, conspiratorially. He wasn’t sure why Mycroft was glaring at him, but presumably it was because he was suddenly the focus of attention.

            ‘How was your journey?’ He stared into Sibyl’s face. She was Sherlock over again, those sculpted cheekbones, the same neat nose. Only the eyes were different, huge and a much darker blue.

            John opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Mycroft came to his rescue.

            ‘Heavy traffic on the M40, but it was quite clear after that.’

            ‘Such a horrid trip,’ Sibyl said, shaking her head. ‘If only you lived closer.’

            ‘London is necessary,’ Sherlock said.

            She brightened up. ‘Well, I expect you’ll want to get yourselves settled. Mycroft, you are in the Print room, and I’ve put you boys in the Hogarth suite. Fingers has laid out tea in the drawing room if you want something before the dressing bell.’


	2. Dressing for Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having arrived at Sandon Hall, Sherlock, John and Mycroft are shown to their rooms by Fingers the butler…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some readers might be shocked by the use of a particular term of abuse, but I feel it is appropriate in context.
> 
> For those who don't know, MC stands for Military Cross, “The MC is granted in recognition of "an act or acts of exemplary gallantry during active operations against the enemy on land to all members, of any rank in Our Armed Forces…" Originally created in 1914 for commissioned officers only, it is now awarded to all ranks.

The butler followed them up the stairs, lugging bags. Mycroft stomped ahead until they reached the upper corridor, then stopped and turned on them

‘The proper form of address is _Lady_ Holmes,’ he snapped at John.

‘What?’ John said.

‘Just because you don’t use your title, doesn’t mean you need to be a Nazi about other people’s,’ Sherlock snarled back.

‘Title? What title?’

Mycroft stormed off down the corridor.

‘Mummy’s title is Sibyl, Viscountess Holmes of Sandon and Blaine,’ Sherlock sighed. ‘The proper form of address is Lady Holmes or, if you know her well enough, Lady Sibyl.’

‘A viscountess?’

‘Yes.’

‘So Mycroft is?’

‘Eighth Viscount Holmes of Sandon and Blaine, but he doesn’t use it. I don’t think Mummy becomes the Dowager Viscountess until Mycroft marries, but since that isn’t likely…’

‘There won’t be a Ninth Viscount?’

‘Oh, well, Deplorable Cousin Derek is next in line, I think. But he won’t get the house. That comes from Mummy’s side.’

‘But what about you? Aren’t you next in line?’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t take it.’ Sherlock shuddered in disgust.

‘Oh.’ John gave this stupendous news some thought. ‘So do you have a title?’

Sherlock shrugged. ‘I’m just an Honourable. It doesn’t count.’

‘Doesn’t count?!’ John almost shrieked. ‘I grew up in a suburban semi in Woking! How does it _not count_?’

Sherlock shrugged. ‘Can we get on now, please?’

 

* * *

 

 

Fingers opened the door at the end of the corridor and stood back as they entered an enormous room decorated in deep green, with silk damask on the walls to match the flowing drapes at the windows, and on the canopy over the bed. The burr walnut of the furniture glowed amber in the sudden electric light. Fingers hung the suit carriers carefully in the capacious wardrobe and stowed the bags on two suitcase stands beside it. John scanned the room.

‘Sherlock?’

‘What?’ Sherlock had already flopped down in the counterpaine.

‘This is a suite right?’

‘Hmmm?’

‘Where’s the other bed?’

Sherlock’s head snapped up. ‘Bloody Mycroft!’ he shouted and stormed out.

John turned to Fingers. ‘There isn’t another bed, is there?’

‘No, sir.’ The vast man gazed down at him. His hair was shaved close to his skull and his nose was broken flat against his pugnacious face.

‘Mycroft sorts out the sleeping arrangements, right?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Well, I don’t mind sleeping on the floor,’ John sighed. ‘If you can get me some spare blankets or something.’

‘Sorry, sir,’ Fingers apologised. ‘Every stitch of spare bedding is accounted for. Even the young ones are in sleeping bags. Her Ladyship likes a houseful at Christmas.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Too late to head off to Banbury either, the shops’ll be shut.’

‘Oh. How many are staying?’

‘Twenty-eight,’ Fingers said.

‘Twenty-eight? Seriously?’ John was struck with horror at the prospect. Twenty-eight Holmes’s en masse! What the hell had he let himself in for?

‘Yes, sir. Every room, sir. It’s not as if we could put you anywhere else. Even the stables are full for the Boxing Day hunt.’

Shouting started up in the hallway. Fingers cleared his throat awkwardly.

‘They’re always like this at Christmas?’ John asked.

‘Always, sir. Mr Mycroft likes his little jokes.’

The door burst open and Sherlock stormed back in, slamming it. ‘Bloody Mycroft!’ he shouted, stomping up and down and waiving his arms about in a frenzy. ‘Bloody, bloody Mycroft! I don’t mind for myself, but making you out to look like a bloody…. bloody..’ he seemed to be winding himself up for a suitably evil expletive. ‘Arsejockey!’

John laughed.

Sherlock glared at him. ‘What?’

‘I really don’t think that is a word I _ever_ expected to hear coming out of your mouth!’ John giggled. Even Fingers was grinning.

‘Don’t you start!’ Sherlock snapped at the butler, calming down in spite of himself. ‘It’s not bloody funny! He does it deliberately, you know.’ He folded his arms petulantly. ‘You’d better not bloody snore is all I can say!’

‘ _Me_ snore?’ John crowed.

‘If that’s all, sir, I can see another car coming up the drive,’ Fingers said, trying so hard not to smirk that his face was almost creaking.

‘Yeah, thanks mate,’ John told him, slapping him genially on the back. When he’d gone, Sherlock gave his friend a prim admonishment.

‘Don’t call the Help ‘mate’.’

‘Sorry, Sherlock, I haven’t had your privileged upbringing.’

 

* * *

 

 

            John hurriedly stowed his suit carrier inside the exquisite wardrobe, then took out Sherlock’s tuxedo and hung it up to air. He didn’t want to look at his mess dress. It was bad enough having to wear it. He didn’t want to think about it before he had to. He had thought about buying a new dress suit, but he couldn’t really afford it, and although Sherlock would have undoubtedly insisted on lending him the money, he didn’t want to ask. Now he knew just how rich and important the Holmes family were, he was even more glad he hadn’t.

            ‘Aren’t you going to get yours out?’ Sherlock asked him languidly, lounging on the bed with a book on forensic entymology.

            ‘Doesn’t need it,’ John mumbled. ‘Why is this called the Hogarth suite?’

            Sherlock pointed to the picture hanging over the fireplace without looking up from his page.

            It was a smallish canvas of an interior with a shadowy background that brought the colours in the foreground all the more brilliance. John wasn’t an art expert by any means, but he knew a Hogarth when he saw one. Eighteenth century grotesques frolicked in pink and blue satin, getting up to no good in somebody’s parlour. It was marvellous.

            ‘Seriously?’

            ‘I think one of the Eighteenth century forebears bought it direct from the artist,’ Sherlock said in a bored tone, turning a page.

            ‘I never knew anybody who was posh enough to have forebears before. Ancestors maybe, but not forebears.’

            Sherlock grunted and sprawled out on the bed on his front, rumpling the covers. John looked at him. Such a long slender body when it was laid out like that. He had never really thought about it before. And then he stopped himself. Yes, he had thought about it. Why was he kidding himself? Lately he had been noticing a lot about Sherlock that he hadn’t admitted to himself. The way that berry-coloured silk shirt suited him so well, brought out the colour of his eyes. The strangely creamy colour of his complexion. The way the skin at the top of his nose rumpled when he was thinking. The way he always bought clothes that were tightly fitting around his body, accentuating his narrow waist and taut buttocks.

            Arsejockey, John thought, staring at Sherlock’s perfectly delineated bottom. Where the hell had he picked that up from? Surely, what Sherlock’s brain recorded and what it deleted, and the rationale for either choice, were beyond comprehension.

 

* * *

 

 

            The dressing bell rang at 5pm. It made John jump.

            ‘What’s that?’

            ‘You have first shower, I can wait.’ Sherlock was lying on his back now, book at arm’s length, while John paced around. John was surprised by Sherlock’s suggestion. He never put John first.

            ‘No, thanks, you go first.’

            Sherlock shook his head. ‘Mummy won’t let Mycroft fit a new boiler, so its always a huge fight to wash in hot water. Better get it while you can. Besides, I want to finish this chapter.’

            The bathroom was vast, arcane and exceedingly chilly. John steeled himself to get into the shower, wondering whether Sherlock’s strategy was so selfless after all. The steam from John’s shower would doubtless warm up the room, even if it took most of the hot water. The tub was a huge porcelain job that had probably been fitted in about 1930, along with what had been a state-of-the-art shower cage at the time. It squirted jets of scalding water from all directions. The pipes throbbed ominously. He needed a shave. He needed to stand under the shower head and let the water pound his shoulders and his skull. He needed to stop thinking. He needed, above all, not to have to put on that bloody uniform. The best he could hope for was to put it off for a long as possible.

 

* * *

 

            Sherlock had taken his suit into the bathroom with him, to ‘steam’ it, he said, so he was fully dressed when he emerged half an hour later, straightening his black silk tie absently. John was standing in front of the full length dressing mirror, putting the final touches to his outfit, and examining where he had cut himself shaving from nerves. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Sherlock freeze. His mouth had dropped open.

            ‘What’s wrong, doesn’t it fit right?’ He’d been worried that he had put on weight and that the trousers would be rather snug, but by chasing Sherlock around London’s rooftops, he seemed to have avoided that rather dramatically. If anything, they were a little loose. He tugged his cherry red jacket down and turned around.

            Sherlock was definitely staring.

            ‘That bad?’

            ‘Bloody hell, you’re gorgeous!’ Sherlock blurted out, and then realised what he had said. ‘Erm, I mean, girlbait, absolute girlbait.’

            Now it was John’s turn to stare in disbelief. ‘Did you just quote Blackadder at me?’

            ‘Er, that programme you were watching the other night with the soldiers? I thought it would be appropriate.’ Sherlock’s eyes were raking John’s body, his expression almost predatory. ‘Same uniform.’

            ‘Similar,’ John corrected him. He felt decidedly peculiar. He didn’t like wearing the uniform because of the memories that it brought flooding back, but its effect on his friend was, well, gratifying to say the least. ‘You don’t think it’s too much?’

            ‘God, no. Mummy will probably swoon on the spot. Instant brownie points to me for bringing you.’ Sherlock launched himself forward, coming suddenly close enough for John to register his hot breath on his skin. John knew he should be used to Sherlock’s habitual invasion of his personal space after all these months, but it still took him by surprise, and tonight it felt especially weird.

‘New aftershave?’ John asked him, his head slightly spinning.

‘Old. Mummy’s favourite. She insists on it every Christmas. You’ll probably get presented with a bottle tomorrow.’

Sherlock reached out and plucked a trace of fluff from John’s epaulette.

            ‘Lint,’ he said, by way of explanation.

            ‘I’ve brought my blazer, you don’t think that would be better, do you?’ Please say yes please say yes.

            Sherlock ignored him. His eyes had ranged down to the strip of ribbons on John’s breast. He brushed his fingertip along them, sending little electric shocks across John’s body.

            ‘What are these?’ His breath was sweetly scented against John’s cheek.

            ‘Decorations,’ John murmured. ‘Mostly campaign colours.’

            ‘Shouldn’t you be wearing the medals?’

            ‘Only for special occasions. Queen’s birthday and the like.’

            ‘Oh.’ Sherlock kept stroking the little rectangles. ‘Tell me which one’s which.’

            John had to look down at an acute angle. Their fringes brushed together.

            ‘This one,’ he pointed,’ Northern Ireland. Then Bosnia, Somalia, Kossovo, then Iraq and two for Afghanistan.’

            ‘What are these two at the end?’ Sherlock’s voice had deepened, become almost husky. His finger pressed down on the last two colours.

            John had to clear his throat to be certain of his voice not wavering. He pointed to the one on the end. ‘That’s a battle colour. Blood spilt in service of Queen and Country.’

            ‘And that?’

            ‘Sherlock, don’t-‘

            ‘It’s for bravery, isn’t it?’

            The words hung heavily between them. John’s swallow seemed to echo around the room.

            ‘Sherlock, please?’

            He could feel the taller man’s eyes on him now, scanning his face, almost burning his skin. He wasn’t letting go.

            ‘Yes,’ John croaked. ‘It’s an MC.’ It took a few moments for him to steady himself sufficiently to raise his head and look Sherlock in the eye. The expression that he found there was the last one he expected.

            Pride.

            Sherlock’s eyes were moist, almost teary. But it was definitely pride that was written all over his face. John felt suddenly exhilarated.

            ‘John Watson,’ Sherlock Holmes whispered. ‘Don’t you ever try to tell me you are ordinary again.’


	3. Cocktails and Cigars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Holmes Christmas party is about to begin...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: More sexual suggestiveness, smoking and a sad secret.

            The hall was lit up by the immense, glittering chandelier hanging in its centre. A fire crackled in the grate. The black and white squared marble floor shone. A man in a bottle green velvet frock coat was sitting on the bottom stair, hunched over cupped palms. He was lighting up a cigar.

            ‘Derek!’ Sherlock cried out as he galloped down, taking the stairs two at a time, with John trotting behind him. The man looked up, and John saw the same slotted blue eyes he had been gazing into only moments before. Derek got up and held out a hand, but Sherlock dragged him in for an enthusiastic hug.

            ‘How are you, old man?’ Derek grinned, clenching his cigar between his teeth. He had a brilliant streak of white in his hair, to the left of his parting.

            ‘Excellent! Excellent! All the better for seeing you – this is my friend John.’ He pushed John forward. ‘John, this is my reprobate cousin Derek, the black sheep of the family.’

            ‘ _He’s_ the black sheep?’ John said, bemused, as Derek pumped his hand.

            ‘Gave me my first spliff,’ Sherlock said, proudly.

            ‘I’ve been a dreadfully bad influence on him,’ Derek confessed. ‘Fancy a cigar?’

            ‘No, thank you.’

            Derek took one out of his top pocket amiably. ‘No need to ask you, though, eh, Sherlock?’ He cupped his hands for Sherlock to light up. John watched the evident pleasure with which his friend sucked on the roll of tobacco, the way his cheeks hollowed, the muscles in his long jaw and even longer neck working. He didn’t know why this should shock him, given the number of nicotine patches Sherlock got through, but it made his inner doctor bristle.

            ‘Soldier?’ asked Derek.

            ‘Battlefield surgeon,’ Sherlock supplied.

            ‘Retired,’ John added, a little piqued at being talked over. Derek stood back and surveyed him critically.

            ‘The girls are going to wet themselves when you walk in,’ he said, with a note of approval that might even have been envy.

            Sherlock threw back his head and blew a smoke ring at the ceiling. ‘Where is everyone?’

            ‘The Salon, where else? Aunt Phyllis is in, so watch out.’

            ‘Oh, God, really? Why does Mummy keep inviting her?’

John gave Sherlock an enquiring look, but Derek intercepted it. ‘Every family has one, and she’s ours,’ he said. ‘Don’t get her on the subject of immigration, and ignore it if she starts on about-‘ (He and Sherlock chanted this bit together, a shared joke born of long frustrated hours in the past, John realised.) ’-how blue Hitler’s eyes were!’ They laughed.

‘She knew Hitler?’

‘God, no. That was Diana Mosley’s favourite story – Phyllis stole it from her. They were great pals – at least that’s how Phyllis tells it.’ Derek rolled his eyes and took another long toke on his cigar.

            Sherlock picked a scrap of tobacco from his lip with his ring finger and thumb, so gracefully that John was almost prepared to forgive him the cigar. ‘I suppose we had better go and face them.’

            ‘Over the top!’ Derek smirked, glancing at John’s uniform again.

 

* * *

 

 

            John had been to plenty of grand occasions before, regimental balls and Sandhurst dinners to name a few, but nothing had prepared him for this. Perhaps it was the simple fact that all these important and wealthy people were relations of the man with whom he shared a flat, and he just couldn’t reconcile the two, the infuriating, brilliant detective who couldn’t use a tin opener, and the son of the British aristocracy who shouldn’t need to.

            The Salon was a vast space that ran almost the whole length of the back of the Hall, with a huge rotunda in the middle. Along its outer wall, fronting onto the terrace, were floor to ceiling windows with ornate dressings, elegantly tucked and looped swags of turquoise silk trimmed with mammoth gold tassels. On the inner wall were a series of ornate ormalu mirrors, reflecting the glittering guests, a mass of diamonds and satin reveres wafting to and from the table in the central curve, where Fingers and several other penguin-suited minions were dishing out cocktails. Crystal glasses chimed, and people laughed. The air shimmered, moist with alcohol and hot breath. John looked up at the complex plaster mouldings on the ceiling and tried hard to find some courage. This was worse than going on patrol in Helmand.

            Then the cavalry arrived. Lady Holmes sailed up, her arms outstretched. She wore a black satin gown, gathered beneath a wide sash at the waist, with long sleeves and billowing skirts. The deep boat neck set off the elegance of her throat perfectly, pearls reflecting a delicate glow on her skin. She looked like an aged Audrey Hepburn.

            ‘John, darling!’ she cried.

            He clasped her hand and pressed it to his lips in an ostentatious show of chivalry. ‘Lady Sibyl, you look ravishing!’

            ‘Oooo,’ she cooed, fluttering her eyelids. ‘So do you!’ She turned to her younger son. ‘Sherlock, shame on you! You never told me he was so dashing!’

            Sherlock kissed her cheek indulgently. ‘That’s because I knew you would flirt outrageously with him, and I wanted to keep him to myself just a little longer.’

            ‘I see you’ve seen Derek already,’ she said, eyeing the cigar clamped between his fingers.

            ‘It’s Christmas, Mummy. At least allow me to have _one_ in peace.’ He puffed, defiantly.

            ‘I can see you disapprove as much as I do,’ she said, slipping her arm through John’s. ‘Now come and meet cousin Sophie and her family.’

            John looked over his shoulder as she led him away, but Sherlock just shrugged at him. Fat lot of help you are, you bastard! John thought.

            In fact, as with all social gatherings, John found it was not so bad once he had got into the groove of small talk. His uniform certainly seemed to break the ice with most people, and made a huge impression on a gaggle of younger cousins, preternaturally beautiful girls of GCSE age in dresses too old for them, who giggled and made comments suggestive enough to make him blush. Older uncles seemed quietly impressed enough to take him seriously and ask his opinion about the war. And then, to his amazement, listened when he gave it. Aunts and middle aged cousins told him embarrassing stories about Sherlock and Mycroft’s childhood escapades which he tucked away as ammunition for the future.

            And every time he looked up, as he circulated, Sherlock was looking for him, their eyes meeting with the briefest twitch of a smile.

            Why does my heart leap when he does that, John thought, nodding blankly as Aunt Judith launched into another tale about Sherlock’s unnatural intelligence in childhood. Why does it make me so happy to know he is always aware of where I am?

            The cocktails were extremely good. When he arrived at the table in the rotunda to ask for a Manhattan for Aunt Judith, Fingers was waiting for him with a knowing smile.

            ‘A Manhattan,’ he said, pouring from his silver mixer into a sloping cocktail glass. He reached beneath the table and brought out a small glass to press into John’s free hand. ‘And a special for you, sir.’ He winked.

            John sipped it, and nearly dropped the Manhattan. It was his favourite, a Rusty Nail. How the hell did he know that? When John turned around to make his way back to the venerable aunt and her store of stories, he saw Sherlock looking at him, head and shoulders above everyone else around him. He winked too.

            Bloody Sherlock! John thought. Playing tricks again. And Oh, how glad I am he is.

            At eight, the gong for dinner rang. Once again, Lady Sibyl came to claim him, a cloud of rustling silk.

            ‘John, since you are simply the most handsome man in the room, a fact that no doubt will put both my sons’ noses out of joint until next Christmas at least, I intend to invoke a hostess’s prerogative and ask you to escort me into dinner.’

            ‘I should be honoured,’ he said, offering her his arm. As they promenaded past Sherlock and Mycroft, John couldn’t help feeling smug.

 

* * *

 

 

            In the cavernous dining room, the walls were painted bulls blood red, and the huge table groaned with silver, porcelain and crystal glasses. Candle flames danced on towering silver candelabra. The mahogany table top shone warmly between the settings and bowls of white roses and ivy.

            Lady Sibyl took her seat at the head of the table, Mycroft at the opposite end. John found himself sitting opposite Sherlock and beside his glamorous hostess. Soup was served by Fingers and a bevy of waiting staff in white shirts and black ties.

An old lady in pearls and a dove grey lace gown, her thready grey curls piled on top of her head, sat to John’s right.

            ‘So you’re Sherlock’s young man, then?’ she asked.

            ‘I, erm, I’m his friend-‘

            She held out an arthritic hand for him to shake, confusing the waitress who was trying to reach around her with a brimming soup plate.

            ‘I’m Aunt Alice. Well, I suppose technically, I’m Sherlock’s great aunt, his grandfather’s sister, but I’ve never liked the label. So aging, don’t you think?’

            ‘Oh, er, yes.’

            ‘In the army?

            ‘Retired.’

            She raised an eyebrow. ‘How’d you two meet?’

            ‘Er, introduced by a friend. Sherlock was looking for a flatmate and I was looking for a flat.’

            Aunt Alice slurped loudly at her soup, clearly adhering to the principle that now she was old, she need no longer adhere to any of the usual rules.

            ‘What’s he doing now?’

            ‘Er, he’s a consulting detective-‘

            ‘Oh, that police thing. Well, I suppose it’s better than lying around all day shooting up, or whatever it was.’

            ‘He’s very good at it,’ John felt obliged to point out.

            ‘What, shooting up?’

            ‘No, detective work.’

            ‘Yes, but is it a _proper_ job?’

            ‘Well, he seems to think so.’

            ‘He was a dreadful trial to his mother, you know.’

            ‘I’m sure. It must have been very worrying. But I assure you that he’s over that now.’

            She looked at him, raising her eyebrows as she slurped another mouthful. ‘Well, I hope you’re going to sort him out,’ she said, sharply. ‘Never saw a boy need a good rogering as badly as Sherlock.’

            John nearly sprayed his mouthful of soup across the room.

 

* * *

 

 

           It was the usual set up. After the cheese course, the ladies retreated to the Drawing room for coffee, and the men stayed on for port and cigars. Except John, Sherlock and The Deplorable Derek, as Sherlock liked to call him, who sneaked off to the Billiards room once they had filled their glasses.

            ‘Do you play?’ Derek enquired, plucking at his cue.

            ‘Pool,’ John admitted.

            ‘He’s a quick learner,’ Sherlock said, to John’s surprise. Usually, he grumbled the opposite.

            ‘I’ll just watch.’

            Sherlock took off his jacket, and John stood back and watched as he stretched out across the table to make his break, enjoying the way the cotton of Sherlock’s dress shirt pulled across his sinewy torso, the way the fine black wool of his trousers clung to his haunches, setting his rounded buttocks into sharp relief.

            The balls clicked, and a red rumbled down a corner pocket.

            ‘Oh, bugger,’ Derek groaned. ‘I can see how this is going to end.’

            ‘Wouldn’t want to break the habit of a lifetime,’ Sherlock smirked, standing up again to assess his next move.

            ‘I don’t know why I bother.’ Derek took off his velvet coat, displaying the same lean physique as his younger cousin. ‘Let battle commence.’

 

* * *

 

Sherlock won the next three games without even trying, so far as John could see. Getting a little bored, he left them wrangling about a wrongly potted brown, and wandered off into the Drawing room. A couple of the young girls were giggling on the sofa, but apart from that, everyone seemed to have dispersed and he was effectively alone. He found himself drawn to the grand piano in the window, its keys silent, its lid spread with an embroidered shawl on which had been carefully positioned a host of family photographs.

He picked up the largest, an informal family group. It reminded him of an old photo he had seen of the Royal family, taken at Balmoral, the familiar, and usually sombre, faces laughing uproariously. The picture had that lurid colour that old photos have, the faces worryingly orange. Sherlock couldn’t have been more than eight when it was taken, his features still plump with baby fat. He was leaning back against the body of a man who could have been Mycroft, but for his narrow, pale eyes, so like the detective’s own. The man rested his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders, as if in ownership. Sherlock stared out from under a mop of mahogany curls, proud and defiant.

Lady Sibyl lounged to the right, dazzlingly lovely, her hair falling in ringlets on her shoulders. Her arm was around a youth of about seventeen, gawky and with his father’s large nose. John would recognise that haughty expression anywhere though – it was Mycroft. Between the parents stood a third child, a girl, slender and dark haired, the image of her mother.

He heard a rustle of silk beside him.

‘She was eleven when that was taken.’

Lady Sibyl was gazing over his shoulder at the image, her eyes wide with sadness.

‘I didn’t know Sherlock had a sister,’ he found himself saying.

‘She died not long after,’ Sibyl said. ‘Leukaemia. David never really got over it.’ She shook her head. ‘Adelaide. Her name was Adelaide.’

‘She was very beautiful,’ was all John could think of to say.

Sibyl seemed lost in her own world. ‘And then we lost David. Sherlock was never the same after that. They were so close. Such similar minds. Sherlock worshipped him. We had so much trouble with Sherlock - well, I expect you know all about that.’

John didn’t.

‘He used to light up when David came into the room.’

There was a long silence between them. John fought the urge to put his arm around her, afraid that might be taken as over familiar.

‘I thought I’d never see that look on his face again,’ she said eventually, turning those huge eyes on him, so that he saw she was weeping. ‘But he looks that way when he sees you. Thank you for giving me that, John. It’s the best Christmas present a mother could have.’ She cupped his cheek in her hand and kissed him so sweetly that he found his own eyes pricking. Then she turned back to the photos, picking up another.

It was an early 1960s portrait shot, the young man looking up at the camera, his eyes dewy, the edges blurred. It was Mycroft all over again.

‘They dragged the lake for him, you know,’ she said, brushing the glass with her fingertips tenderly. ‘It would have been so much better to have found a body. At least we’d have had something to bury.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deplorable cousin Derek and his sublimely beautiful girlfriend, Susanna or Susie, are in actual fact real people, and although not quite so dissolute, the real Derek is just as much of a peacock! Sorry Dezza, couldn’t resist putting you in. I hope you like the green velvet coat.


	4. A Bad Night and a Good Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John struggles with memories of his experiences in Afghanistan, but Christmas morning brings comfort, church, and presents.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: A homosexual encounter and sexual references. Also, some readers of a Christian disposition may be shocked at John’s scepticism.

            Dust. And rock. And rubble. The armoured Snatch landrover in front bumping over potholes in the road, snaking along the mountain pass. A precipitous drop on one side, and a scramble of broken buildings and scree on the other. The mind-numbing cold of the mountains, even though the sky was brilliant blue and cloudless. Then the explosion. The doors of the landrover blowing off. The horrifying screech of metal forced outwards. Screaming and gunfire.

            ‘John! John!’ He was being shaken.

            ‘Mmm, huuh!’ Struggling against the hands gripping his shoulders.

            ‘John!’

            The light went on, pain in his eyes. A frightened face close to his, taut skin and wild eyes.

            ‘John, it’s me! Sherlock!’

            Yes, yes, of course, he knew that.

            He was sweating, panting. ‘Nightmare,’ he managed.

            Satisfied he was properly awake, Sherlock sprang out of the bed and went into the bathroom. Water sluiced into the basin. He came out carrying a full glass, pressing it into John’s shaking hand as if it was the cure for all ills.

            ‘Drink this.’

            It was blisteringly cold, like mountain stream water. He gulped it down, then let Sherlock take the glass from him, and sat there, hunched over, head spinning.

            Sherlock’s fingers, running through his hair, brushing it back off his flushed face.

            ‘Lie back,’ he coaxed. ‘Rest.’

            The pillow was cool and soft. The bed creaked as Sherlock got in.

            ‘Sorry,’ John croaked.

            ‘Rest,’ Sherlock whispered, and turned out the light.

 

* * *

 

 

            Cold light snaked its way in at the edges of the heavy curtains. The antique plumbing groaned in distant attics. Overhead, floorboards creaked as an early riser paced over them.

            John lay still for a long time, sensations filtering into his brain without any meaning attached to them. Then, he slowly became aware of a weight pressing on his shoulder, pinning his chest down. Blinking, he tried to assess what it was.

            Sherlock.

            Somehow, during the night, he had squirmed under John’s arm and come to rest, head on his shoulder, arm slung loosely about John’s chest. His leg was thrown casually across John’s thigh, his torso wedged against John’s side. John could smell whisky and cigars on his breath.

Then something else dawned on him. He was no stranger to the phenomenon of morning erections himself, but he was amazed to discover that Sherlock was also prone. A thick ridge of hard flesh dug into John’s hip.

            John didn’t know what to think. It was an incredibly odd feeling. Part of him was glowing at the thought that Sherlock had wrapped his body so jealously around him in his sleep. It was an admission of his subconscious attachment, and it felt wonderful. But then there was the other part of him, the part that was screaming ‘ARSEJOCKEY!!!!’, the part that wanted to propel John’s body out of the bed and behind the nearest locked door at twice the speed of sound or, preferably, faster.

            Sherlock made a strange purring noise, and nuzzled into John, shifting his hips subtly.

John realised he was holding his breath. He should move. That was what he should do. Carefully extricate himself and go to the bathroom, before Sherlock woke and was embarrassed. The detective’s steady breathing suggested he was still sound asleep. John was sure he could just-

            ‘Relax,’ Sherlock purred suddenly, making John jump. He lifted his head.

            How can anybody be that beautiful first thing in the morning, John thought, gazing into the blue eyes blinking down at him. It’s indecent.

            Before either of them really knew what was happening, Sherlock had bunched up his lips into a hard knot and lent down to kiss John.

            He has no idea, went through John’s head.

            Sherlock pulled away, his eyes wide with surprise. The effect was clearly not what he had intended, for either of them. John saw frustration contort his features. Somehow he couldn’t leave Sherlock like that, couldn’t bear to reject him when he was so innocent.

            He cupped Sherlock’s cheek in his palm, ran his thumb along the fullness of Sherlock’s lower lip.

            ‘Let me,’ he whispered, and pulled the detective’s head down.

            It was marvellous. How could it be so marvellous? How could Sherlock’s wide, curled mouth fit his own so perfectly, as if they had been made for one another, like jigsaw pieces? Their lips slid together. Sherlock sighed, shifted his body weight, so that he was lying on top of John, so that John could tangle his fingers in the glossy dark curls at the back of his head. John found himself gulping hungrily at Sherlock’s mouth, licking along the seam between his lips until they parted, the tip of Sherlock’s tongue tentatively poking through.

The contact between their tongues sent shudders through them both. Sherlock groaned. John clasped the back of his head and tilted it, the better to mine Sherlock’s mouth. Tongues dancing together, Sherlock’s hips pressing down, and now John realised he was aroused too, the bloom of heat spreading through his body from his groin. He pushed Sherlock onto his back and rolled on top of him, legs tangling. Sherlock’s hands fluttered nervously down his back, found the flesh of his buttocks and squeezed.

            Oh God.

            John’s tongue dug deeper, exploring. How was this possible? How could it be so good to kiss another man? But this was not just another man, this was Sherlock. He slid his fingertips down the long, alabaster throat, and was rewarded with a moan. Sherlock hips tilted, pushing his pelvis up, grinding his rigid cock against John’s.

            Oh, dear God!

            Then there was a knock on the door. They sprang apart, wild eyed, scrambling for the farthest edges of the bed.

            ‘Who is it?’ Sherlock’s voice came out breathless, half strangled.

            ‘Fingers, sir. Your morning coffee.’

            Sherlock glanced at John for agreement. John nodded, lying back onto his side and tucking his knees up to conceal his embarrassment. Sherlock sat up, bunching the covers in his lap.

            ‘Come in!’

            Fine china chimed as Fingers entered. He laid the tray on the credenza and went to open the curtains.

            ‘It’s a beautiful morning, sir,’ he said lightly, not looking at the bed. ‘You did not say whether you preferred coffee or tea so I brought both. Breakfast will be at 9.’

            ‘Thank you very much,’ Sherlock said with uncharacteristic politeness. Brilliant sunshine flooded the room. It was a sharp, brittle morning, and the glass was crazed with deep frost.

            ‘Will that be all?’

            ‘Yes, thank you, Fingers.’

            John called out to the butler from under the blanket, ‘Merry Christmas, Fingers!’

            ‘And a Merry Christmas to you, sir.’ It was the first time he had looked at the bed, and his cheeks reddened a little as he left the room.

            John covered his face with his hands and groaned.

            Sherlock sprang up. ‘Tea for you?’ John could see the tent in his pyjama pants made by his bobbing erection as he walked over to the tray.

            ‘Yes, thank you.’

            Sherlock poured stewed brown liquid into a bone china cup so fine that the sun shone right through it, and brought it to John’s bedside, slopping it profusely. Then he climbed back into bed and rested back against the deeply upholstered headboard gazing down at his friend. Afraid to meet Sherlock’s eye, John sat up and took up the tea, sipping at it. It was scalding hot.

            ‘Put that down’, Sherlock huffed, and pulled something out of the bedside drawer. He pressed a small parcel into John’s hands. It was about the size of a man’s fist, and wrapped in gaudy red paper.

            ‘I thought the presents were going to be later?’ John said, staring at it. ‘Yours is downstairs under the tree.’

            ‘They are,’ Sherlock told him. ‘This one is just between you and me. Open it.’

            John’s hands were shaking as he fumbled with the wrapping. Sherlock inched closer, as if keen to discover what was inside too. After some wrestling, John managed to pull out a leather box with gold letters embossed on the top.

_Cartier_

            ‘Sherlock, I-‘ He was dazzled.

            ‘Open it!’ Sherlock urged excitedly, ignoring him.

            The box was surprising heavy and the sprung lid resisted his fingers for a moment. Then it lifted.

            On a bed of padded blue satin lay a slim, elegant watch with a gold bezel and a brown patent strap. It was classic, perfect, none of that Rolex-style bling.

            ‘Sherlock,’ John breathed, knowing even as he looked at its beauty that he couldn’t accept it.

            ‘Look at the back,’ Sherlock coaxed.

            There was an inscription on the silver metal plate on the reverse.

_To John,_

_My Partner in Crime._

_Always yours, S._

            ‘Sherlock, really, I can’t-‘

            But Sherlock was already strapping it on, his cool fingertips brushing the sensitive skin of John’s inner wrist, sending little thrills straight up his arm. John stared at it, dumb.

            ‘Do you like it?’ Like a small child, Sherlock wanted praise for his gift. A flood of emotions surged through John’s chest.

            ‘It’s beautiful,’ he managed to croak. When he steeled himself to look up, Sherlock looked uncertain.

            ‘Really?’

            ‘Yes.’

            And then, ‘Sherlock, I-‘

            ‘I can’t help it,’ Sherlock whispered, resting his head on John’s shoulder. ‘I tried, I really did. But when I see you… You can say no, and I’ll understand. But I had to tell you.’

            ‘Sherlock, I’m straight.’

            ‘Yes.,’ he replied. ‘So am I. At least, I presumed I was. I never really bothered to find out. But-‘

            John pulled the rangy body against him and lay back against the headboard, trying to think, trying to make sense of it all. But it defied sense. What sense was there in the fact that John Watson, enthusiastically heterosexual virtually since the day he was born, had found himself completely obsessed with this strange and brilliant man from the moment they had met? What sense was there in the fact that though he longed for breasts and hips and everything in between, his body was now aching for the man lying in his arms? What sense did it make that when Sherlock looked at him, he felt really _seen_ for the first time in his life?

            ‘I don’t know about this, I really don’t,’ he told Sherlock, who was running his fingers over his collarbone, lightly stroking. ‘It throws everything I know about myself into the air. It’s going to take me some time.’

            ‘Whatever you want,’ Sherlock whispered. ‘You don’t have to do anything about it. I just needed you to know.’

            ‘But that – what just happened-‘

            ‘Was incredible. But I promise it won’t happen again unless you want it to.’

            John sighed. That was the problem. He did want it to. He looked at his new watch. It said 8.35am. Story of his life. There wasn’t enough time.

            Then he finally registered what Sherlock had said. ‘What do you mean, you _never really bothered to find out_?’

 

* * *

 

 

            Breakfast had been laid out on the sideboard in the Dining Room, a feast of silver platters heated by little paraffin lamps underneath. Besides the usual bacon and eggs, there were kippers, kedgeree and devilled kidneys dusted with sprigs of parsley, mountains of croissants twisted like crabs, and trays of cured hams, cheese and salami. There was far more food than even the hinted-at number of 28 could have consumed. John wondered what happened to all the leftovers as he heaped his plate from the hot platters. Sherlock had toast and coffee.

            They sat down together at the table, opposite Aunt Alice, who was listening to Lady Sibyl as she discussed the Boxing Day Hunt with considerable animation. John tried to keep his eyes on his food, but Sibyl looked so phenomenally beautiful in her Christmassy red dress that he gave up after a while. Then he realised that Alice was giving Sherlock some examination.

The great nephew was lounging back in his chair, sipping at his coffee and reading – forensic etymology had been absorbed, and he had found somewhere a new volume, a treatise on the chemical analysis of tobaccos. Alice looked him over with the same sceptical expression that Sherlock used when he was poking around on one of Anderson’s crime scenes. Then she looked frankly at John, raised an eyebrow and winked.

            John nearly dropped his fork. He could feel the blush come right up from the soles of his feet.

 

* * *

 

 

            ‘Oh, John, darling, you will come to church with us, won’t you? Sibyl was being helped into her coat by the butler.

            ‘Well, I don’t really-‘

            ‘The boys won’t come, and Alice and I do like to sing carols on Christmas morning. It doesn’t seem like Christmas without them, don’t you think?’

            Several of the clan packed into the back of Mycroft’s limousine, but John was the only man. He sat there, crushed against an avalanche of elderly women in a cloud of rose- scented talcum powder, and tried hard not to feel sulky. Sherlock had just shrugged when he appealed for him to join them.

            ‘I think it would be rather hypocritical of me-‘ he mused, pulling a book from his pocket.

            So John had to submit to being the ladies escort.

            Church reminded him of the army, a memory he really didn’t want today. So many times he had stood on church parade, beside the coffin of a comrade awaiting repatriation. Bitter memories of the watery voice of some army chaplain saying a series of empty words that explained nothing and brought no comfort to any of the men standing stiffly in front of him. The whole thing had always stuck in his craw.

            Now here he was in the Holmes family pew, front row, mumbling his way through that verse from ‘O Come All Ye Faithful’ that is only allowed to be sung on Christmas day, and therefore nobody knows. The church was surprisingly full. He supposed this was the kind of area where people liked such traditions. When the organ wheezed into an asthmatic silence, the church warden stood up in her new clothes to read the lesson from the Gospel (the bit about the Emperor Augustus and Herod the King which he remembered from the Nativity play at school, along with the itchy brown tabard he had to wear to play Joseph, with a tea towel on his head.)

John sat with his hands in his lap and stared into the flower arrangement that adorned the front of the pew, holly and ivy and nodding white hellebores. He became aware of the watch’s coolness against his skin. He lifted his cuff a little so he could see it, run his finger over the crystal face. He knew he should never have accepted it – it was far too much. He thought about the inscription on the back, Sherlock’s proclamation of love pressed to his wrist. His head filled suddenly with the flash of an image, Sherlock writhing under him in bed earlier, his voluptuous lips parted, his hips thrusting hungrily.

            Oh God.

            Oh, God, I should not be thinking about this of all things in church on Christmas morning.

            Someone coughed at the back of the nave, rousing him. His feet were getting cold from contact with the stone flagged floor. The hairs on the back of his head were synging from the heat of the electric bar heaters suspended overhead. Beside him, Sybil sniffled into a handkerchief and he realised she was weeping. Not knowing what else to do, he slipped his arm around her shoulders, and was amazed when she laid her head on his shoulder. He caught the eye of Aunt Alice who was sitting beside Sybil. She smiled her approval.

            How has this happened, John thought, his nostrils filling with the sweetness of Sybil’s perfume – Chanel No 5, if he wasn’t mistaken. He thought of Sherlock’s tender expression last night, his undisguised desire when he saw John in uniform. He remembered how Sybil had monopolised him at dinner, how she had confided in him in the quiet of the drawing room about the loss of her daughter. He was used to confidences – he was a doctor after all – but he had not expected them from the Holmes family. And then, contrary to everything he had expected of them, they had reached out and embraced him as one of their own. He remembered Sybil’s words:

 

_‘I thought I’d never see that look on his face again. But he looks that way when he sees you. Thank you for giving me that, John. It’s the best Christmas present a mother could have.’_

 

            Had he unwittingly given this woman back her son? He glanced at the watch again. If he had, he thought that Sherlock had probably given John more.

 

* * *

 

 

            ‘But John, darling, it’s so cold!’

            Sybil’s breath made clouds in the bitter air as she tried to coax John back into the waiting car.

            ‘It’s alright, Sybil, really. I could do with the walk. Clear my head.’

            She didn’t want to leave him, he was sure, but it wasn’t even a half mile walk, and he needed the time to get his head together. The carols had raised so many dark memories – two Christmases ago, a frosty morning in Kandahar, when he had spent seven hours trying to sew a rifleman back together after he’d stepped on an old Russian mine. They had been playing carols loudly in the NAAFI next door to the operating theatre the whole time, and the noise leaked through. He had decided after the vicar had announced ‘O Little Town of Bethlehem’ that he wanted to walk back. Needed to, in fact.

            The air was sharp and smelt of wet earth. He walked past a couple of houses on the edge of the village. Through the windows of one, he saw a little girl, not more than three or four years old, making a wobbly circuit of the sitting room on an obviously new bike. Next door, a couple were being greeted on the doorstep for Christmas lunch, offering bottles of wine in paper gift bags to their hostess as she hurried them inside.

            ‘Come on in, its freezing,’ he heard her say.

            He realised he had trudged three quarters of the way up the sweeping drive to the Hall before he knew what he was doing, in a haze of memories from long past and from recent months. The recent ones were of Sherlock. Sherlock in the back of the taxi that first night, deducing him. Sherlock leaning against the hall wall at Baker Street, laughing after their abortive race after the taxi. Sherlock standing by the pool, gun in hand, looking down at him, the expression of understanding in his eyes as he prepared to face down Moriarty. And Sherlock last night, seen across a room full of relatives, all strangers to John, his eyes alight with love.

            John found he had come to a stop. He was just standing there, in the bitter chill, feet deep in the gravel, shivering. His head was full of Sherlock’s eyes last night, shining.

            Oh, God, Sherlock. What am I going to do?

            He heard a shout from the steps of the Hall. Derek’s girlfriend Susanna was standing there, waiving her arms.

            ‘Come on, they’re opening the champagne!’

 

* * *

 

 

            He had just shed his coat and gloves when Sherlock barrelled into him.

            ‘Where have you been? I was worried.’

            ‘Its okay. I just needed some fresh air.’

            Sherlock laid a hand on John’s bicep tenderly. ‘Things at church a bit much?’

            John shrugged. ‘Got a lot to think about.’

            Sherlock smiled. ‘Well, take your mind off it. We’re trying to get everyone into the drawing room for champagne and presents, but I can’t find Mycroft. Will you help?’

            They set off in opposite directions, Sherlock heading for the kitchens in the basements. ‘He’s a devil for the pantries at Christmas,’ he explained as he careened off. ‘Cook will skin him alive if she catches him, but he loves to gorge.’

            An image of Mycroft, caught red handed with chocolate smeared around his mouth, like Billy Bunter, filled John’s brain and he couldn’t help laughing to himself as he wondered where had not been searched.

            Ironically, he found Mycroft in the Library a few minutes later, blundering in, having no idea where he was, or where he was going. It was another of the vast formal reception rooms on the ground floor of the hall, a cavern of towering bookcases, books imprisoned behind strange wire nets as if to keep birds away, their leather spines cracking with age. Two huge desks faced one another, each with an elaborate silver inkwell topped with a figure of Eros, one winged foot outstretched. But Mycroft was not sitting down, working at the laptop he had left on the blotter of one. He was staring out of the window, his eyes haunted. The strange grey light of the day gave his features an ethereal beauty, illuminating deep sadness in his eyes.

            ‘Mycroft?’ John could hardly bear to speak in the stillness of the room. The large ormalu clock on the mantel ticked. There were thuds overhead as people were marshalled for the most important ritual of the day. Shouts and giggles echoed from the marble hall. When Mycroft did not respond, John edged a little closer, hoping to see what he was staring at so intently. The view from the window was over a long lawn and down to a picturesque lake. A pair of black swans skimmed lazily across its surface, avoiding the patches of ice that floated amongst the reeds.

            ‘Mycroft?’ John whispered.

            The viscount who didn’t use his title sighed. John had never seen anyone look so desolate.

            ‘This is a house of shadows, John,’ he murmured in a voice that spoke of distance and profound loss. He raised his eyes to meet John’s gaze, and for a moment, John thought he might have seen a tear. But the spymaster seemed to ruffle himself up into some semblance of his usual snide self.

            ‘All hands on deck for the champagne and mincers, I suppose?’

            ‘Mycroft, is there anything I can do?’

            He frowned with surprise. ‘Dr Watson, you never cease to amaze me. One minute you refuse to take my money for your services to my brother, and act as if I am your absolute nemesis, the next your invite my confidences and try to comfort me in my distress.   While I am very grateful, I can assure you, I have no need of your help.’

            ‘Really?’ John stood his ground, as he always did with Mycroft. It had proved a successful strategy so far.

            The older man glanced back out of the window at the lake. ‘We are beyond help now,’ he whispered.

 

* * *

 

 

            Champagne corks were popping. Warm mince pies were passed round. Mycroft and a bevy of the interchangeable young cousins were handing out presents to everyone amidst gales of laughter. Deplorable Derek sat down on the sofa between John and Susanna with a suitably deplorable grin on his face.

            ‘So,’ Derek said. ‘What was your Before Breakfast present?

            ‘What?’ John was startled, distracted from watching Sherlock having a disagreement with Mycroft about a parcel for their mother.

            ‘The present you get before you come down to breakfast? The one that no one else is supposed to see? It’s a family tradition.’ Derek flashed an obscene grin. ‘Susanna gave me a leather posing pouch. With a feather. Couldn’t open that in front of the Aunts, could I?’

            Susanna leaned across her boyfriend’s lap to pat John on the knee. ‘You didn’t know about it, did you?’ Her flawless porcelain skin was lusciously flushed, her raven lair falling loosely over her shoulders. John was struck with the full force of her beauty.

            ‘I had no idea,’ he admitted to her.

            ‘So come on, what did Sherlock give you?’ Derek wheedled.

            John pulled back his cuff in answer. Derek’s eyes widened. ‘Good God, really? It _must_ be serious!’

            ‘We’re just friends,’ John told him, but without much conviction.

            Then Sherlock was beside John, perching on the arm of the sofa and pushing a parcel into his hands. ‘This is from Mummy,’ he said. ‘Don’t say I didn’t warn you.’

            It was a bottle of aftershave, an extremely old formula from a French company that John had never heard of, in a gold-leaf embossed bottle. The same fragrance that Sherlock had been wearing the night before.

Susanna gasped. ‘Gosh, that’s what Sherlock and Mycroft’s dad used to wear!’

            ‘The old girl insists the boys wear it to remind her,’ Derek told John.

            ‘He said he liked it on _me_ ,’ Sherlock told them, as if by way of compensation for the weirdness of Sybil’s predilection.

            Sherlock got a cashmere scarf in cornflower blue. He kissed his mother’s cheek fondly. ‘It’s very nice, mummy, but I think it would look better on John.’ At which he proceeded to tie it around John’s neck, making him blush profusely.

            ‘Oh, yes,’ Sybil agreed. ‘It brings out the colour of your eyes, John.’

            John wanted the ground to open up and swallow him.

            The presents kept coming thick and fast, the room full of the crackle of paper and whoops of delight. A leather Aspinals diary for Mycroft (‘Oh, Mummy, you knew!’), an iPad for Sherlock from his brother (‘Don’t you think that’s rather extravagant, Mycroft?’ ‘Oh, I think John will be pleased to get his own laptop back from Sherlock’s clutches.’) Sherlock had got John a fine cashmere sweater, clearly a criticism of his usual taste, but it was extremely nice and very costly. He put it on, and everyone approved of the colour on him, a subtle shade of lime green which he would never have chosen for himself. Cashmere was a definite theme, because Sherlock had also brought his mother a cashmere wrap, which she threw around herself and snuggled into with evident delight (‘Oh darling, you shouldn’t have!’ which clearly meant that of course, he should.)

            Sherlock had saved his gift from John till last. He eagerly unwrapped the long thin parcel and found inside a brand new riding crop.

            ‘Because you broke the old one,’ John grinned.

            ‘Oh, darling, I didn’t know you were riding again! How lovely!’ Sybil clapped her hands in innocent delight.

            Derek went purple and started to cough helplessly.

            ‘Somebody get him a glass of water,’ Mycroft growled.

            ‘Look underneath,’ John whispered to Sherlock in the midst of the commotion. There was a small envelope tucked amidst the tissue paper. It was a life membership card for the British Library.

            ‘John!’ Sherlock breathed, his eyes wide.

            And there, in front of his entire family, he leaned over and planted a smacking great kiss on John’s lips in gratitude.

 

 


	5. Christmas Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas night is closing in, and with it come memories neither John nor Sherlock can escape…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Gay sex, extreme violence and emotional trauma.

            After an impressively expansive lunch, John went off for a walk in the ice-rimed parterre garden. Sherlock sulked and refused to go, as he always did, taunting John for his unnatural enthusiasm for fresh air and exercise. When he got back, the hall was full of music, grand, sweeping chords and twinkling arpeggios, and laughter. Peeling off his jacket, he hovered on the threshold of the Drawing Room.

Surrounded by adoring relatives, Deplorable Derek and Sherlock were sitting side by side at the grand piano, horsing around. John had already discovered in the course of the morning’s chat that Derek worked in the music business, but he had assumed from the way Derek talked about it that he did something more prosaic than playing. And he had certainly never supposed that Sherlock played the piano as well as the violin. In fact, both of them seemed to be exceedingly good at it. He watched as they struck out into an unexpectedly complex duet version of Grieg’s ‘Hall of the Mountain King’, which, he assumed from the laughter and clapping that greeted the first tiptoeing phrases, was their party piece.

            ‘He’s very good, isn’t he?’ He glanced round to see Aunt Alice hovering beside him.

            ‘I didn’t know he played the piano,’ John confessed.

            ‘Inherited his father’s passion for music,’ Alice nodded. ‘David studied with Rubenstein before he gave it up for the science. I understand it’s quite common amongst scientists, the two seem to go together. He taught Sherlock to play.’

            ‘What about Mycroft? Does he play?’

            She laughed. ‘Mycroft? Mycroft has all the romance of a camel! No musical talent at all!’

            John was surprised to find how much that idea pleased him. He watched the two scrawny figures hunched over the keyboard, eyes darting over each other’s hands, Sherlock taking the melody on the higher notes, then Derek snatching it back in the bass register. They were almost functioning as one person, and yet they were having such fun at the same time, teasing one another with trills, each trying to out-do the other.

            ‘Always so competitive,’ Alice laughed. ‘Do you play?’

            ‘Oh, no. I love to listen though.’ They listened as the pace increased to a heartbeat thudding.

‘David was a scientist?’ John asked her, his mind tugging at him to follow her conversation while his heart was entranced with the image of Sherlock laughing and playing around like a _normal_ person. Sibyl’s words from the night before came back again into his mind like a ghostly echo : ‘ _He used to light up when David came into the room.’_

            ‘Yes, I didn’t really understand most of it,’ Alice was saying. ‘Something to do with quantum something or other. A philosophical astrophysicist, I suppose. Of course they have to be a bit odd to do that, but it sent him quite mad. I wasn’t the least bit surprised when he disappeared.’

            The Hall of the Mountain King was coming to its thunderous finale. The glass in the enormous windows creaked as Derek and Sherlock pounded the keys, rocking the family photos on the piano’s lid into a frenzy.

John turned to her in astonishment. ‘Disappeared?’

            ‘Oh, yes, my dear, didn’t you know? He sat down at that very piano one Christmas Eve and played the Moonlight Sonata, and then got up and walked out of the house and was never seen again.’ Her rheumy eyes were wide with the import of her tale. ‘It was pouring with rain, an absolutely bitter day, but he didn’t take a coat or his wallet. Didn’t even leave a note, or say anything to Sibyl or the staff. Just got up and went!’

            ‘Good God!’ John couldn’t believe it. Was this what the whole Holmsian Christmas was about, exorcising the ghost of a literally lost father?

            ‘Never seen again,’ Alice repeated, shaking her head as the crowded Drawing Room exploded into applause and wolf whistles, and cries of ‘More, More!’

            ‘I had no idea.’

            Alice sighed. ‘Those boys never were the sort to volunteer information. Of course, I blame the private tutor.’

            This non-sequitur rather confused him, but Alice seemed bent on her own exposition. ‘It’s love, you see. Sibyl never had it, or at least enough of it, with David, and the tutor – his name began with an M, Murphy or something Irish anyway, I don’t remember now – rather turned her head. And David worked all hours, of course, never had the time for her. Isn’t that Claire de Lune?’

            Sherlock had embarked on a new piece alone, Derek sitting beside him, his arms folded, watching his cousin’s hands as they caressed the keys. Sherlock’s eyes were closed. John was struck by how tragically beautiful he looked, playing his father’s piano.

            ‘You love him, don’t you,’ Alice whispered, drawing close to John’s shoulder.

            He couldn’t seem to take his eyes off Sherlock. ‘Yes,’ he murmured.

            ‘There’s a ‘but’ there, isn’t there?’

            He turned and looked down into her face. She seemed very slightly annoyed.

            ‘Then let me give you a piece of hard-won advice from my long and varied experience,’ she said. ‘We human beings spend our whole lives chasing after love. So when you find yourself in the extraordinarily rare position of being passionately loved in return by your beloved, please do not waste precious time worrying about whether their genitals are the right shape.’

            She drifted away towards the Salon, the haunting notes clouding around her.

  

* * *

 

  

          It was getting very late. A wind had blown up from the east, rattling the sashes and whistling around the corners of the house. The electricity supply flickered, the lights on the tree blinking uncertainly. Almost everyone over 20 had already turned in. The youngsters had taken over the Billiards room, and the fire in the Drawing Room hearth was dying. John finished the last of his port and decided to turn in. He had no idea where Sherlock had gone, but he found him as soon as he reached the Hall.

            A skinny figure reminiscent of a Giacometti sculpture was standing at the bottom of the sweeping staircase, staring out into the blue night through the double doors of the house’s main entrance. The black of his suit echoed the chequerboard marble floor, a strange, haunting chiaroscuro.

            For a moment, John found himself arrested by the scene, the pale faced man, the pale marble squares under his feet, the pale marble fireplace behind, the blinking chandelier above.

            Sherlock’s face was drawn, his expression hunted.

            ‘Sherlock?’

            Holmes swayed a little at the sound of his voice, but did not look away from the front door. John wondered what he was staring at, and came forward, rested his hand on Sherlock’s sleeve gently.

            ‘Sherlock, what is it?’

            He looked out into the darkness but could see nothing moving except the topiarised box bushes that decorated the steps, tugged by the growing gale.

            ‘What do you see?’ He realised his voice had shrunk to a whisper.

            Sherlock slowly turned his head, and Watson saw the tear tracks on his face.

            ‘It was here,’ he said, hoarse with emotion. ‘I was here. The last time I saw him. I was standing here. And every time I come here, I keep expecting him to just walk back through that door. As if nothing has changed. As if he never went away.’

            There was nothing John could say. He could only nod.

            ‘I _hate_ this house,’ Sherlock spat suddenly, and then looked shocked by his own vehemence. ‘It’s just a house full of ghosts!’

            Confused, John did what he would have done had Sherlock been the ten year old boy he was when his father left. He took him softly in his arms and held him. He was expecting sobs, but there was nothing. Sherlock’s body was stiff against him, the pain contained. He allowed himself to be held. John pulled back, unsatisfied, his offer of comfort not exactly rejected, but certainly not taken up. He looked up into the detective’s eyes, bleached to grey by his pain.

            ‘We’re going home tomorrow,’ John said, feeling like he was speaking to a child. ‘It won’t be long.’

            ‘Promise?’

            ‘Yes, I promise.’

            Sherlock nodded, a little reassured.

            ‘Come on,’ John coaxed. ‘Let’s get some kip.’

            Sherlock followed him up the stairs, walking stiffly, as if every muscle in his body was slightly numb. At the turn of the flight, he stopped for a moment, and looked down again at the door, expecting someone whom he knew would never now arrive.

 

* * *

 

 

Dust. And rock. And rubble. The armoured landrover in front bumping over potholes in the road, snaking along the mountain pass. But this time he knew it was not just a nightmare. This time it was memory. He saw the bomb go off, felt the blast wave hit the vehicle he was travelling in, felt his body convulse with the pain of it. He scrambled out of the Mastiff, the only man not down.

There was poor Plod in the dust. That was what everybody called him. His real name was Tom Warner. Just a gunner, a private. Not very bright, but John knew him, liked him. The boy was a good laugh, always ready to play the fool for his mates. Only eighteen and on his first tour. He had been in the first Snatch landrover, been thrown clear. His leg hanging off. Screaming.

Still reeling, John knelt over him, tying the tourniquet on the stump of the boy’s thigh. Scrabbling in the dust for his field kit, for morphine shots. Bullets whistling overhead. A firefight going on. Smoke belching from the torn-out hulk of the Snatch, the heat of the petrol-fuelled flames on his face as he worked.

Something knocked him over, winded him. He was lying on his back, staring up at the sky. Such a clear, blue sky, not a single whisp of cloud. Not a day for men to be fighting. Not a day to die.

Then the pain. Pain in his shoulder. Pain in his chest.

I am dying.

Plod’s voice, pleading.

A man standing over them, an Afghan, his face masked. Holding out a pistol, aiming.

Plod begging.

The crack of the shot. The impact thudding through the earth and into John’s body.

Then the muzzle of the gun turned on him. Looking up into the man’s chilling eyes.

‘Kaffir.’ The familiar insult.

Poor Plod. Just a kid. He would have had a chance. John might have saved him. He could have had a life.

The rage came.

Why wait? I’m going to die anyway.

How can a man launch himself from flat on his back to upright and fighting, with a bullet in his shoulder? The pistol skittered away. The lurch of overpowering rage. John’s hands around the Afghan’s neck as he knocked him backwards.   He could have broken that neck easily, one twist, but he didn’t.

Suffer, you bastard. Suffer. I want you to know what it feels like!

The crushing of the cartilage under his fists, the larynx collapsing. The light going out of the Afghan’s eyes.

Then panting, kneeling astride the body, realising. Bullets zinging around his head. Reaching out for the pistol. Staggering to his feet. Walking. Walking around the back of the Mastiff. Walking out into the bullets.

How had he done it? He still did not know, watching himself in the dream as he stumbled through the rocks, caked in dust and blood.

There were two of them. Just lads. They had set up the machine gun behind an outcrop. The metal casings clattered out onto the earth as the rounds rattled out. They did not hear him until it was too late, until he was at point blank range.

A single shot in the back of the first boy’s head. Before he had even had chance to fall forward, the second turning round, eyes wide with horror. John brought the pistol down on the side of his head. He fell back into the rocks, clawing at his skull. John dropped over him, raising the pistol again and again.

When they found him, he was covered in blood and brains. They told him it was impossible to tell how badly injured he was, because of all the blood, or to guess what had been Plod’s, what was his own, and what had belonged to the second Afghan machine gunner.

They gave him a medal for destroying an enemy machine gun nest single-handed, saving the lives of half a dozen men pinned down by fire behind the charred corpse of the armoured column.

 

* * *

 

 

The screams were his own. Then thudding on the door. The blast of light from the hallway. Sherlock’s voice, scattered scraps, hard to understand.

‘Yes, he’s fine… nightmare … perfectly fine, just … Mycroft, the time is irrelevant … go back to…’

The door shut with a slam. The bedside lamp clicked on. Agonising, drenching light.

He was knotted in the sheets, dripping with sweat, shaking.

Familiar cool hands on his skin, lifting him, holding him.

He sobbed. Sobbed it all out. Sobbed like he never had before. Sobbed the shame and the fear and the rage and the horror and the misery and the guilt and the regret. Sobbed for poor Plod, for the men incinerated in the Snatch, for all the other boys he hadn’t been able to save, for all the children who stepped on land mines and all the mothers and old men crushed by falling roofs in air strikes, for all the mangled bodies and broken hearts and for all the misery of it, the plain, ordinary, everyday, grinding, soul-crushing misery.

And then he told Sherlock everything. He told him about Jenny, the nurse he had held as she died of wounds sustained when the Taliban broke into an antenatal clinic she was running up in the hills and sprayed the room with bullets. He told him about the baby he had delivered in the rubble of a village after an airstrike had gone astray, how he had cut it from its dead mother’s womb, cleaned out its mouth and nose, clamped and cut its umbilical cord, and held the tiny, squirming body, covered with lard and blood, in his hands, and wondered why he didn’t just throttle it there and then to save it growing up in this hell-hole.

And he told him how he had killed the Afghan who had murdered Plod, how he had throttled him, and how he had killed the machine gunners, half bleeding to death himself, because there was no point in going alone, and he wanted to take as many of the bastards down with him as he could.

He told him that on that last day, in all the blood and the pain, how he had enjoyed killing those men with his bare hands. Enjoyed it.

And when there was nothing left to tell, no shame left, no horror unaccounted for, he folded into Sherlock’s skin and faded into blissful unconsciousness again.

 

* * *

 

 

The roaring of wind in the chimney. Daylight peeping through the gaps behind the curtains. A knock.

Sherlock sprang out of the bed, and was at the door, pre-empting Fingers’ entrance.

He heard the butler’s voice: ‘Your morning coffee and tea, sir.’

‘Let me take it, thank you. John is pretty crocked this morning, doubt we’ll make it down to breakfast in time. Can you give Mummy our apologies?’ The tray rattled as Sherlock held it. John was pretty sure it was not the sort of thing he knew how to carry.

‘Of course, sir. Is there anything I can get you, sir?’ Concern in Fingers’ voice. ‘I can bring breakfast up?’

‘No, really, thank you. I hope you weren’t woken-‘

‘Everyone was most concerned.’

‘That’s very kind, but it’s really alright.’

‘Very well, sir, if there is nothing-‘

‘No. Thank you.’

John heard the door shut gently, and the clink as the tray was set down. He lay inert, head throbbing, eyes raw, guts aching.

Sherlock crawled back under the covers, shivering.

‘Cold?’ John managed to breath.

‘Brass monkeys,’ Sherlock muttered, teeth chattering. He nuzzled against John, insinuating himself into the exhausted man’s arms. They lay together, entwined, listening to the gusts that buffeted the eaves and rattled the windows, and drifted back into sleep.

 

* * *

 

 

Warmth. Blissful warmth. John could not remember a time when he had felt so warm and safe. Waking in a blur, his eyes swollen and stiff, he lay on his side and basked in the sense of comfort and security. It was a long time before he began to wonder where it came from.

Sherlock was spooning him. The long body lay curved around his own, cupped like petals around his back and legs. Sherlock’s arm was extended, slipped through the neat tunnel between John’s head and shoulder, his other wrapped around John’s ribs. Sherlock’s soft, warm breath caressed the nape of his neck. It was perfect.

He lay for a long while, listening to Sherlock’s breathing. The house seemed quiet, but the wind was still high, and now hail rattled on the window panes. It was a good day to be inside, tucked up snugly in bed.

He was tired, but no longer inclined to sleep. His body felt loose at the joints, as if he had spent the previous day running through the rain. His belly ached too, his stomach feeling empty and scoured out. How long was it since he had eaten? No, he realised, it was not hunger making him feel so hollow. It was the aftermath of intense emotion.

He had told Sherlock everything.

The memory hit him like a huge gust of wind, snatching his breath, leaving him reeling. Everything would be different now. Now that Sherlock knew. Knew the truth about him. He had to move, to get up and get away so that when Sherlock woke, he could handle the rejection. But when he started to shift his body, Sherlock groaned, and tugged him back, arm circling his waist tightly.

‘Sherlock, no,’ he gasped, feeling the tears starting again. He so wanted that blissful security to come back. He so wanted to feel safe and loved. But he knew now that it would never happen again. It was over. He pulled against the scrawny arm, dragged himself upright.

‘What is it?’ Sherlock murmured. ‘Are you okay?’ He rolled over, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, and froze when he saw John’s face. ‘What is it, what’s wrong?’

‘I can’t, Sherlock,’ John croaked. ‘I just can’t…’ His voice failed him as Sherlock sat up and pulled him into his arms.

‘Tell me,’ he whispered, his face so close, close enough to kiss. And John so wanted to kiss him, wanted to be kissed. But no more.

‘Last night,’ he tried, but the words died.

‘You think I feel different?’ the detective breathed.

‘Now you know what I’m capable of-‘

‘But I’ve always known what you are capable of. You killed a man within twenty-four hours of our meeting one another. Why should I feel any different now?’

He cupped John’s face in his hands tightly, forcing him to look into those cornflower eyes, and began to speak.

‘You know I didn’t take much notice at school, but I do remember this: we studied Othello, and some words from it stuck in my head. It’s from when Othello is trying to explain how he wooed Desdemona, why she fell in love with him. He says:

_‘She loved me for the dangers I had pass'd,  
And I loved her that she did pity them.’._

He gave John a wry smile. ‘Odd, don’t you think, that I should remember those words of all things, and all these years? But now I know why. It was because I was waiting for you, John. I love you for the dangers you have passed. In spite of them. You wouldn’t be yourself otherwise. It torments me that you have suffered so much. But now I’m here to share it with you.’

The words were hypnotic. Sherlock’s voice had dropped to a husky purr. John stared up into his eyes, feeling tears trickling down the sides of his face and finding he was completely unable to stop them. When the detective’s words finally died, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to John’s.

 

* * *

 

 

That whole long morning, while the rest of the house was down in the village, watching the start of the Boxing Day Hunt, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson made love. While the wind rattled the windows, Sherlock’s rosebud mouth traced the curve of his doctor’s shoulder, teeth nipping gently at the fine skin of his throat. He peeled off John’s pyjamas with his long fingers and smoothed his palms over delicious expanses of skin. He lost himself in the rich scent of John’s body, earthy and thick with the sweat and emotion of the night. He found the thrill of the tight little buds of John’s nipples and the rounded swell of his buttocks. He sank his teeth into John’s muscular thighs, ran his tongue along the delicate seam of his scrotum and gulped his cock down with a shiver of delight.

And John wanted it.

Wanted it like he had never wanted anything in his life before.

Wanted to run his fingertips down Sherlock’s long body as he moved over him, tasting. Wanted to arch his back as Sherlock kissed his way across his belly. Wanted to suckle at Sherlock’s nipples, cool and hard in the morning light, and tangle his fingers in the detective’s dark curls while he licked the silky skin of John’s groin and hip. Wanted to fill Sherlock’s beautiful mouth with his cock, and have those voluptuous lips close over him, and lick him and stroke him until he was almost insane with need. Wanted to claim that hungry mouth with his tongue, and feel the vibration of the moans that came from it as he ground his hips against his darling’s.

Wanted the white heat of Sherlock’s body to bury himself in, the tightness, the aching need that made him pump his pelvis against the backs of those slender, pale thighs. Wanted those trembling muscles to grip him till he cried out in pain, and lust, and love. Wanted those eyes to look up at him in surrender, that long neck twisting, craning round as he curved himself over the elegant swoop of Sherlock’s body. Wanted to feel the way those magnificent buttocks fitted against his belly, nestling into his loins as if they had been made for the sole purpose of doing just that. Wanted to hear the indecent slap of skin against skin as they writhed and pounded together, yearning, needing, loving.

Wanted to turn Sherlock then, wanted to spread his legs and tumble between them until there was nothing left but thrusting, hot pleasure engulfing them both. Wanted nothing more than to hear Sherlock cry out his name, beg him never to stop, to hear those words on those perfect lips: ‘more, more.’ Wanted to rear up over his beloved and see that beautiful man lose control, bucking his hips, arching his back, loosing his pleasure over their joined bodies. Wanted to feel the tremors pulse through that shaking, thrusting pelvis and give himself up to it, utterly. Wanted to feel his heart flood out between his legs and into Sherlock’s long, lean body, lost for all time to this, the love of his life. Wanted everything, wanted it all.

And then, wanted to lie spent in Sherlock’s arms, lost and boneless, no longer alone, listening to the heart that beat fast under the ribs against which he rested his cheek. And ache that he could not spend the rest of his life there, in that suspended moment of blissful union.


	6. Boxing Day Lunch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock feels self-conscious, and Aunt Alice sees all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A Fluffy Ending.
> 
> Merry Christmas to you all xxxx

Lunch was a buffet, with hot punch to warm the frozen fingers of those who had spent the morning out. Sherlock and John stood quietly together, watching the family line up before the heavily laiden tables.

‘I feel like I’ve got a neon sign over my head,’ Sherlock whispered out of the corner of his mouth. ‘One that says: ‘I got royally fucked this morning by THIS gorgeous man. And an arrow pointing to you.’

John giggled. ‘No one can tell. Trust me on this one.’

He had not, of course, reckoned with the shrewd eyes of Aunt Alice. She came in late, went to join the end of the line, and then stopped, arrested by the sight of the two men standing so close together in the background of the scene. A knowing smile spread over her wily old face.

‘Oh, Jesus,’ John groaned.

‘I thought you said no one could tell.’

‘Yeah, well, I guess uncanny deduction runs on the family, love.’

‘I’m definitely having a neon sign made.’

‘Shut up, or I’ll do it to you again.’

‘That is _not_ a disincentive.’

 

* * *

 

 

Sybil was standing in the porch, surveying John and Sherlock’s baggage. She picked up the suit carrier with John’s mess dress in it, and brushed it down needlessly with the palm of her hand, as if it was a way of offering tenderness by proxy.

‘Are you sure you won’t stay?’ She pleaded. ‘I don’t like to think of you two going back to that cold, empty flat tonight.’

‘Mrs Hudson will have kept the home fires burning for us,’ John told her.

‘Or at least kept the heating on,’ Sherlock added, and hugged his mother with a fondness she did not seem to be expecting in the slightest. It made her rather tearful.

‘Oh, my dears,’ she murmured, dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief she pulled from her cuff.

Aunt Alice came up, beaming. ‘Now you’d better take care of him, Sherlock,’ she told her great nephew. ‘He’s too good to lose, this one. No shooting up, or whatever it is you get up to. Proper behaviour from you from now on, do you hear, or you’ll never keep him.’

John went beetroot.

Sherlock kissed her dutifully. ‘I promise I will behave impeccably.’

‘And make sure he sees his mother more often,’ she said, turning to John. ‘He’s a wastrel and a rake.’

‘Oh, absolutely,’ John told her, giving her a peck on the cheek. In return he got an enthusiastic hug.

The black limousine slid up to the door and Mycroft got out, scuttling through the sleet to the door.

‘Clive is ready for you now,’ he said, brushing wet snow off his shoulders. He shook John’s hand formally as Fingers appeared to scoop up the bags. ‘We had a bit of trouble starting her, must be the cold. Take care, old chap,’ he said. ‘Keep a close eye on him for me.’

John grinned. ‘I shan’t.’

And then Mycroft did something completely out of character. He hugged his little brother.

‘Be careful,’ he admonished.

‘Aren’t I always?’ Sherlock said, looking a little abashed.

‘Brat,’ Mycroft told him, almost fondly.

And then they scrambled out through the icy wind, for the warm fug of the back seat of the car. John paused before he got in, waiting for Fingers to finish loading the luggage so that he could shake his hand warmly.

‘Good luck with that parole board,’ he said.

‘Thank you, sir. Happy New Year to you.’

‘And you.’ He leant forward conspiratorially. ‘Don’t let the old bat get too sloshed.’

Fingers glanced up at the family standing in the porch, and then smirked at John.

As they pulled away, John glimpsed Deplorable Derek and Sublime Susanna, as he had christened her, waiving at the drawing room window.

‘Well,’ he said, sitting back. ‘You okay?’

Sherlock was looking out of the window at the Hall as it receded from view.

‘Not that bad, was it? John ventured, seeing the sadness in his lover’s eyes.

‘It got better,’ Sherlock said, his voice slightly hollow. When the vast house had vanished behind the high hedges and the car had slid smoothly out onto the village road, he turned to John. ‘Maybe next year it won’t be so hard. Maybe there’ll be fewer memories next time.’

‘We’ll have some happier ones to look back on, anyway,’ John agreed.

‘Promise?’

Yep.’

‘Hmm,’ Sherlock conjectured, getting a naughty glint in his eye. ‘On that subject, how are we going to keep ourselves occupied for the next hour or so?’

John found himself being pulled into the detective’s lap. ‘Erm, we could play i-spy?’

‘I have a better idea….’

And it was.

 

THE END

 

 


End file.
